349/365

left another pound of flesh
at the temple door.
don’t confuse this poet
with a martyr. it’s not
a sacrifice- when you beg to do it.

the fever pitch has us spinning.
the nights are long and still
draining old fashions,  
writing holiday cards,
ballads from the
nineteen seventies,
a soothing salve.

we’re certain love and devotion
are meant to be exhausting.
the question is whether we’ll survive.